On Stupid Holidays
by FancyFreeThinker101
Summary: In which Sharp makes Valentines plans with the best of intentions. Fluffed out. COMPANION PIECE TO WOES OF THE ETERNALLY BORED. Will not make sense otherwise. Bernard/OC.


On Stupid Holidays

Of course, it all began with work—so much of my life did.

"Bernard, are you going to be working late Friday?"

I shrugged; after one, it was hardly anything to me when and for how long I worked late. I had become so accustomed to it (though it happened less frequently than usual ever since Hemmings' departure to travel) over the past few years that it had ceased to even phase me.

Gwendolyn, however, was hardly so resilient.

"Bernard, it's a bit important, can't you try to find out tomorrow?"

I allowed one shoulder to rise and fall; my wife, never one of much subtlety, persisted.

"Bernard, please please please?"

"What makes Friday of any importance?" I asked, rolling my eyes at the newspaper. As if startled that I didn't know, she rejoined:

"Good God, Bernard! Where have you _been_? Friday is Valentines' Day!"

Oh, good God.

Quickly so as to squelch any unpleasant plans in the make, I said:

"Sharp, I refuse to partake in any absurdities. Is that clear?"

"Don't be a grouch, Bernard, c'mon—"

"Sharp."

"You don't even know what I've _planned_ yet!"

I just looked at her.

"I know you've planned it. That's quite enough."

"Oh, Bernard—"

"Sharp, you know I don't do dinner."

She just made a face.

"I wasn't planning on dinner, for your information."

I snorted.

"How fortunate for you."

Sharp bared her tongue.

"Let me finish. I wasn't planning on dinner, but I _am_ planning on something, so get used to the idea. You can't be a grouch forever."

"Watch me."

Sharp rolled her eyes, catching my hand in hers and toying with my fingers.

"You wait and see, Bernard. I'll make a romantic out of you yet."

I gave another dry snort.

"Deluded as always."

But, hard as I tried, I couldn't quite keep the inane little smile from slithering onto my face—and I had a nasty suspicion that the minx saw it

The next few days were a whirl of Sharp—dashing in and out of the kitchen at every phone call, smiling to herself over some ominous secret, staying up late to discuss whatever this affair entailed with the elder Sharps. Any efforts on my part, however—not that I made many—were quickly rebuffed.

"No dice, Bernard. It's boring if you know ahead of time."

I rolled my eyes at her.

"It's misery either way."

But frustrating little chit that she was, she'd only laugh and scamper off, leaving me to dismiss her inanities from my mind as well as I could.

"Bernard, my office. ASAP."

Kate Hemmings, tone barely this side of civil, swept by my desk without a glance, mouth rather tighter than usual. Feeling this boded only ill, I sighed and reluctantly followed, making sure to look as inconvenienced as possible. Sitting behind her desk, hands together and businesslike, she began:

"Bernard, I received a call today from your wife."

I camoflauged a cringe with a brief coughing fit; God knows what the Sharp minx had embroiled me into this time.

"And?" I said at last.

Hemmings' hostility cooled by the merest half-degree; her mouth twitched faintly.

"And she is insistent that I let you out today on the tick of the dot. Absolutely the tick of the dot. Not a second later. She says she knew you wouldn't 'advocate for yourself,'" (again, I suppressed a grimace) "but she intends to. So—I brought you in here to discuss the matter."

I merely stood there, silently resolving to block Sharp's number from the museum phones; thus far her interferences only brought trouble. Hemmings continued.

"Obviously, you really don't need my or anyone's explicit approval to leave work at the end of your shift—however, if you want tomorrow off, I need to know now so I can find a replacement."

I snorted. As if my level of competence could be easily replaced.

"Good luck."

Kate's hard grey eyes went all the way around; she grimaced.

"Don't be an ass, Bernard. I thought being married would teach you social skills; I guess not. But anyway, do you or do you not want tomorrow off?"

I shifted a shoulder, careful not to look particularly invested.

With business transactions, emotion was only ever a weakeness.

"That would suffice."

She exhaled hard, as if I had begged her for the day as a favor.

"I knew you would. Ugh, couples. Well, take your day, then, but be sure to be here Monday ready to go; God knows the temp who'll replace you Saturday will leave plenty for you to fix."

I shrugged again; I was well aware of this. It was inevitable in a world of incompetents. Kate nodded briefly and cleared her throat.

"Good. Glad we settled that. Get out, I have a meeting. And tell your wife to stop calling me."

I tried my hardest to stifle the twitching of my lips.

"She won't listen."

Another snort from Hemmings of profound, horsy contempt.

"I don't doubt it. She never did—still sits on those damn rails whenever she comes to visit. Now get out. Dismissed."

So I returned to my work, slightly less indifferent to life than when I'd left it.

It wasn't until I arrived home (precisely on time, as it happened) that Sharp called. I answered the phone with a faint apprehension; with Sharp, nothing was certain.

"What is it, Gwendolyn?"

Sharp's voice sounded oddly muffled over the phone, as if she were holding it clumsily; I had to strain to hear her.

"Bernard…just wanted to let you 'm coming home now…"

"Oh, good, I can rest easy with that knowledge in mind."

She ignored me.

"I'll be home in ten minutes or so, okay? Behave."

Sharp came in almost dragging her feet; behind her, the door closed without its usual vim.

"Sharp?" I called, quite expecting the chit to pounce upon me in the name of festivity. "Is that you?"

Her voice had the same muffled quality it had had on the phone.

"Hey, Bernard…yeah, it's me…"

And it was—there was Sharp, hair and legs and disorder and all, but something was amiss. The hair was untidy to the point of mere slovenliness (Sharp at least typically kept the look 'eccentric'), while her nose was a truly festive pink at the tip. Her eyes were half-closed and distinctly docile—not at all full of their usual minxishness.

Oh, God.

"Sharp," I said, deciding to cut to the chase. "You're a mess."

She couldn't seem to muster the energy for an appropriate comeback.

"Shut up, Bernard," she mumbled. "I-I'm fine. I'm gonna go get dressed, okay?"

I just raised my eyebrows.

"You're joking. Surely you don't intend to contaminate the populace with whatever that is all in the name of a holiday?"

She scrunched her pink nose at me.

"I'm fine—really. Just a cold…"

Here, she broke off to sneeze violently three times in succession; I sighed, sensing a struggle ahead. The Sharpish stamina was depleted—quite noticeably—but the Sharpish stubbornness was there in spades

"Sharp…"

She stamped her foot.

"Bernard, I'm fine! R-really!"

I stared at her, taking care to look singularly unimpressed.

"I see."

"No, really—I am—I'll just take some Benadryl or something…"

"Gwendolyn, don't be a child."

"I'm NOT! I'm just trying to—"

But she got no further; at this point, I took the matter into my own hands and put a hand to her forehead.

As I'd suspected.

"Sharp, people like you were the reason the Bubonic Plague was such a problem. You're sick. Please stop infecting the innocent."

But here the minx reached the zenith of her devastating cunning; face crumpling, she leaned her hot face to my chest, moaning:

"But I had it all planned out…."

Instinctively, my hands went to her back and hair, clearing it from her face. The question, of course, begged to be asked. `

"What'd you plan, Sharp?"

In a stuffy, woeful voice, she mumbled:

"Was gonna be a surprise…we were gonna go check out this store that specializes in Megamind histories and biographies…and then go tour his lab…and have _awesome_ sex after…"

I stifled my smile in the tangle of her hair.

"It's a stupid holiday, Sharp."

Another moan.

"I don't care…I love you….you're my Valentine."

I could only pray she didn't feel the slight warmth spreading under my turtleneck and into my hair.

"Let's sit down."

Accordingly, I sat on the sofa with Sharp leaning heavily into me, my arm around her shoulders as she slowly sank into a lying position.

"Mmm," she murmured, getting comfortable. "You smell great…"

I snorted.

"That sets my mind at ease."

"Mmmmm…grouch. Bernard?"

I ran a hand over her back in a slow, repetitive spiral.

"Mm?"

Her voice got smaller.

"I…I'm sorry I ruined Valentines Day."

Dammit. I sighed, sensing something mortifying on the horizon—something uncomfortably non-indifferent.

"You didn't ruin Valentines Day," I said, somewhat reluctantly. "Gwendolyn, you know I—don't be absurd. I don't even like this holiday."

"But I do," she mumbled, eyes closed by this point. "And I wanted you to have fun. 'm sorry."

It was really, I reflected, entirely Gwendolyn's fault that this conversation was getting so out of hand—if she wouldn't so consistently test my apathy…

"Sharp," I sighed, "don't be sorry. This is—decent. Now go to sleep, you sound delirious."

Gwendolyn's sleepy little giggle only affirmed this suspicion.

"'m not…you're cute, though. Thanks, Bernard."

I shifted a shoulder—carefully, however, so as to ensure minimal displacement.

"Take a nap, Sharp."

She grinned into my side; the sensation was…not unpleasant.

"I love you, Bernard."

I kissed her briefly on the top of the head. (It was, after all, Valentines Day.)

"I know you do, Sharp."

And then:

"I love you."

I could feel her grin getting exponentially wider; oh, for God's sake. Trust Sharp to make a fuss over everything.

"'m I your Valentine, then?"

"You're pushing it, Sharp."

She laughed again, arms tightening around my waist.

"We—we'll do something…mm…tomorrow…"

"Sure. Please sleep off your typhoid fever."

So there I sat, a Sharp draped over me, until long after her breathing became slow and even and she slid into a lying position, head on my abdomen. Finally, when she was deeply asleep and quite beyond hearing me, I found myself murmuring:

"Happy Valentines Day, Sharp."


End file.
